If At First You Don't Succeed
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Three times a bad pick-up line did not work, and one time it did. Pre-Rebels Kanera fluff.


A/N: I was desperate for something fluffy to write, but inspiration was absent. So I took to tumblr and **asimbelmyne** had the idea of Kanan and bad pick-up lines. It was a glorious idea, so here we are. Hope you enjoy!

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If At First You Don't Succeed

1.

They were docked in some spaceport somewhere; Kanan hadn't really paid attention where. Unless they were on a job, he didn't usually pay attention to much other than his lovely captain and traveling companion, Hera Syndulla. She was, for lack of a more fitting word, incredible; incredibly smart, incredibly skilled, incredibly beautiful.

Incredibly mystifying.

In the couple months he'd known her, Kanan had tried every trick he knew to get her head to turn his way, and she hadn't taken the bait. Not once. Not that she wasn't tempted. Kanan had caught her checking him out a few times, her mouth upturned at the corners like she was laughing at a joke only she knew. She'd arch an eyebrow, turn away. Pretend like there wasn't electricity between them. Fine; if that was her game, Kanan could play.

Lately, he'd taken to using horrendous lines on her. Nothing lewd or inappropriate. Hera wasn't that kind of girl, and he knew that. He _liked_ that, even. (He was beginning to like her on more than a superficial level; another reason he didn't quite mind her frequent rebuffs. It'd be harder to keep from catching feelings if she was outright encouraging him.)

And as much as he liked to imagine what it would be like to see her looking at him with adoration, her scathing glares were fun for now.

She'd given him the day to do as he pleased, and he used that time to roam the spaceport, checking out the local scene. Turned out, there wasn't much of one. He wound up returning to the _Ghost_ within a couple of hours, content to spend the evening pestering Hera or doing chores around the ship. Maybe both at the same time.

As he walked into the common room, he saw his Twi'lek companion sitting in the floor against her favorite chair, clad in a casual shirt and shorts. She had one smooth leg tucked under her and the other stretched out, the knee bruised, bleeding, and swollen. She was pulling things out of her med-kit, looking for a wrap and a cold-pack, no doubt.

Kanan stopped in front of her, frowning. "What happened to _you?_ I thought you said you were working on—"

"Never mind what happened," she groused. She didn't spare a glance in his direction, but her eyes did track down the hall where Chopper was lurking guiltily.

"Do you…need any help?"

"No."

Kanan nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he took a step back. She was in a sour mood and that was fine; he was more than happy to leave her to it. But he did want the last word. He whistled low as he looked at her injured knee one last time.

He started walking away as he spoke, affecting an exaggerated drawl. "I knew you were falling for me, Hera, but, _kriff_ —you didn't have to fall _that_ hard."

She gasped indignantly and a second later, something small and plastic hit between his shoulder blades. He didn't stop to see what it was and he didn't turn around, even though he was dying to know just how annoyed she looked. He just laughed, satisfied with himself for today.

2.

Kanan was the absolute worst, and Hera was afraid she liked it. For six months she'd watched for cracks in his bravado, glimpses of the chivalrous, would-have-been Jedi she'd met on Gorse; she'd seen quite a few. But he covered well, running his mouth whenever he got too close to sincerity.

He'd been running his mouth a _lot_ lately.

Hera wasn't lying to herself. She found him attractive. She'd have even admitted that to _him_ , if he'd bothered to ask her point-blank. But he hadn't, so she didn't. And she wouldn't, either, unless and until he was ever ready to quit throwing out lines and have an honest conversation with her. She thought, sometimes, she could see something in his eyes—but he wasn't ready yet. And neither was she. Intuition told Hera that once they started down that path, there'd be no coming back, for better or for worse.

But that didn't keep her from seizing the opportunity to flirt, whenever the opportunity presented itself. And it so often did; never quite like this, though. Kanan was in the engine room, doing the maintenance she'd needed help with, and he was shirtless.

And he was in _fine_ condition.

She'd walked in, intending to tell him something pertinent to the chore he was doing, and then she just stopped, flushing deeply when she saw him. He was very handsome. And very fit. She clasped her hands behind her back; they'd started to fidget.

He caught her staring, of course, to her everlasting mortification. He grinned wickedly and Hera wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

"Were you talking to me?" He asked, playing coy.

She really couldn't remember whether she had been. "N-no." He took a step forward and she took a step back, not trusting either of them in this small space. He folded his arms over his well-toned chest, smug satisfaction all over his face. She put her tongue over her teeth, making a sucking sound. She had to concentrate far too hard on maintaining eye contact with him. "Please get dressed," she ground out finally.

His eyes widened in mock-innocence. "It's too hot; I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

"Kanan _Jarrus!_ " She yanked the wrench out of his hand. "Get _out._ "

He laughed mercilessly, pushing past her. She felt a flood of humiliation creeping up her neck in dark splotches. But that didn't keep her from watching him until he was out of her line of sight. He turned his head over his shoulder at the last second, grinning as if he knew.

3.

She'd said something about a headache the day before, which was odd. Hera never complained about much of anything. Then she'd gone to bed early, which was even odder. He'd known her the better part of a year now, and he knew that she was the late-to-bed-and-early-to-rise type, the kind of person who thrived on caf and hated to waste time by sleeping more than absolutely necessary.

When she'd gotten up this morning _at zero nine hundred_ and asked him—voice so raw and congested-sounding that he could hardly understand her—if he'd take over piloting the _Ghost_ , he knew it was serious. She had a terrible cold at the very least; he figured some kind of flu was more likely. She was clearly miserable with aches and a fever, shaking with chills, and blowing her nose so much that it was already chapped and peeling. Yet she insisted on sitting in the cockpit, figuratively watching over his shoulder from the co-pilot's seat.

"I've flown the _Ghost_ before, you know." He teased gently.

"I know." She pulled her knees up, turning her face and resting her cheek there. It worried Kanan that she didn't even feel like holding her head up. "I just like to do it myself," she explained lamely. She sounded winded after just a handful of words.

He nodded. "I know." He turned in his seat, leaning forward to touch her elbow. "We'll be in hyperspace for hours. Why don't you go rest?"

She shook her head, eyes dull. Kanan frowned; so she was determined to be stubborn. Fine. He figured he could wear her down.

"Well," he asked, "do you need anything? Tea? Caf?"

"Maybe later."

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"Earlier."

He stroked his goatee, nodding. "That's good, that's good. Are you cold?"

She didn't answer this time, clearly tired of his well-intentioned but smothering questions. She looked up at him, annoyance showing in the way her brows pulled together.

He held up his hands. "If you are," he continued innocently, "I was just going to say you could use _me_ as a blanket."

It took her a second to process the statement and Kanan laughed when he saw the pieces click. She picked her head up to glare at him fully. "Are you done?"

"Almost, I swear." He stood and walked out of the cockpit. He went to his cabin, pulling out an extra blanket and then he took it to Hera, wrapping it around her. On a whim, he brushed his fingers over her cheek tenderly. Her lips parted with a soft inhale. She was surprised by the contact, but not, as far as he could tell, displeased.

"Thanks," she said. There was an indecipherable expression in her eyes.

"You're welcome." He wanted to tell her something—anything—about how he was actually concerned about her, and how he cared about her too much to let her suffer in silence. Kriff, he was half-tempted to tell her that he cared about her period, but all his stupid brain could spit out was, "Oh, and Hera?"

"Hm?"

"The original offer still stands."

She glared _hard_ and when she opened her mouth to retort, Kanan winced, anticipating some cutting remark.

She laughed instead. "I hate you."

He grinned. "I know."

4.

In the year they'd been together, Hera hadn't dared to ask a whole lot about Kanan's Jedi past. He'd volunteered bits and pieces and she'd started filling in the blanks around that, but she still didn't know much about it. She had, however, done a little bit of independent research and found out that Empire Day coincided exactly with the anniversary of the execution of Order 66. The order which had terminated all the Jedi, changing Kanan's life forever.

As if Hera needed more of a reason to hate Empire Day.

Kanan, of course, didn't say anything about it. But the heaviness in his eyes told her he was thinking about it. He was pale, like he hadn't slept. Hera's heart hurt for him. He was no doubt reliving it. How could he not? Imperial propaganda was _everywhere_ in Valentia, Jelucan's capital city. A parade was planned for the evening; Hera hoped they'd be back aboard the ship by then.

They were, thank the Force.

They concluded their business with her contact, and then went back to the _Ghost_ , eating a silent dinner. For most of the night, Hera gave him space, knowing he needed it. She thought about trying to talk to him, but she couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't intrusive or worse: trite.

And then she thought of another tactic. How many dozens of times had he tormented her in the last year with terrible, _terrible_ lines? He always chose his moment well, never throwing one out during a meaningful conversation or when they were _actually_ flirting. He always did it at the worst possible time; when she was busy, when she was distracted, when she was tired. And he almost always had the upper hand.

He didn't know that she'd been studying, listening to the horrible things she heard men say in cantinas across the galaxy. She'd collected a few zingers of her own, and she'd just been waiting for the nerve and opportunity to use them. Right now, she had both. The embarrassment, she reasoned, would be worth eliciting a smile from him today.

Just before she went to bed, she walked through the common room. Kanan was sitting at the dejarik table, staring at the pieces on the board just as he had been an hour ago. Hera cleared her throat softly as she approached. He looked up.

"I…wanted to say something," she began hesitantly. His expression was guarded, but he motioned to the space beside him. She sat down close, their thighs just barely brushing.

"What's up?" If he was surprised her proximity, he wasn't giving it away.

"Um…" She reconsidered the whole scheme for a microsecond before she plowed ahead. "You know, I—was feeling a little off today."

Confusion showed plainly on his face, along with a hint of concern. "Yeah?"

She flushed, anticipating her next words. "But when you came along, you definitely turned me on."

His eyes widened and he turned _red_ and then a slow, devilish grin parted his lips. "You little—"

She pecked a quick kiss on his cheek, interrupting him, and then she jumped to her feet and went to her cabin as quickly as she could. She paused just in front of her door, knowing she was out of sight. She pressed one burning cheek against the cool metal, calming her sudden nerves. "Kanan?" She called. He didn't answer, but she knew he was listening. "I'm sorry about Empire Day."

She heard him get up then, and walk down the hall. She turned to face him and he stopped close enough that he could reach for her hand. With calloused fingertips, he traced circles on her palm. Her heart skittered wildly, but it also ached with compassion. His mouth opened and closed over and over, like he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say.

She was the one who spoke first. "Shh," she said simply. She took a step closer and put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. The contact was new and terrifying and so _right_. Slowly, he returned her embrace, holding tightly. She could hear how his pulse surged unevenly.

After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak and some sixth sense told Hera that while this moment between them was something genuine, his next statement was definitely not.

"Don't get cute," she warned. "Don't ruin it."

A short laugh rumbled in his chest and he didn't say anything else. Neither did she. They held each other for a long time.

(That evening saw the last of the intentionally terrible lines and flirting between them, and for the next ten years, Hera was always happy to remind him that she'd ended with the upper hand. He never disagreed.)


End file.
